HE  YALE  SERIES 


Spires  and 
Poplars 

Alfred  Raymond  Bellinger 


OF  YOUNGER  POETS 


EX    LIBRIS 

UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 


ROM  THE  FUND 
BLISHED  AT  YALE 

IN  1927  BY 
IAM  H.  CROCKER 
THE  CLASS  OF  1882 
LD  SCIENTIFIC  SCHOOL 
ALE  UNIVERSITY 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE. 

THE  Yale  Series  of  Younger  Poets  is  designed  to  afford  a  publishing 
medium  for  the  work  of  young  men  and  women  who  have  not  yet 
secured  a  wide  public  recognition.  It  will  include  only  such  verse  as 
seems  to  give  the  fairest  promise  for  the  future  of  American  poetry, — 
to  the  development  of  which  it  is  hoped  that  the  Series  may  prove  a 
stimulus.  Communications  concerning  manuscripts  should  be  addressed 
to  the  Editor,  Professor  Charlton  M.  Lewis,  425  St.Ronan  Street, New 
Haven,  Connecticut. 


VOLUMES  ISSUED,  OR  PLANNED  FOR 
EARLY  PUBLICATION. 

I.  THE  TEMPERING.  By  Howard  Buck. 
II.  FORGOTTEN  SHRINES.  By  John  Chipman  Farrar. 

III.  FOUR  GARDENS.  By  David  Osborne  Hamilton. 

IV.  SPIRES  AND  POPLARS.  By  Alfred  Raymond  Bellinger. 


Spires  and  Poplars 


ALFRED  R.  BELLINGER 


NEW  HAVEN     YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON   •   HUMPHREY   MILFORD  •   OXFORD  UNIVERSITY   PRESS 

MDCCCCXX 


PYRIGHT,    192O,    BY 
YALE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS. 


CONTENTS. 

1917-1919: 

J.  C.  F g 

I.-XXXII.          .          .          .         .         .         .          .         10 

POEMS  TO  SEVERAL  PEOPLE  : 

F.  P.  M 47 

M.  M.  H.  ......  48 

H.  P.  P 49 

H.  P 51 

C.  L.  W.,  with  a  Mirror       ,          .          .  .  52 

Z.  S.,  July,  1917 


64650G 

5 


1917~1919- 


J.  C.  F. 

THESE  songs  of  France  are  little  worth 
Unless  it  be  to  one  who  knew 
The  various  soil  from  which  they  grew, 
The  melancholy  and  the  mirth, 
Strange  plenitude  and  stranger  dearth 
That  lent  their  influence  unto 
These  songs  of  France. 

Then  take  them,  John,  who  saw  their  birth, 
For  none  can  know  so  well  as  you 
How  out  of  blood  and  out  of  dew 

There  blossomed  on  that  sacred  earth 
These  songs  of  France. 


I. 

THE  harbor  lights  through  which  we  find 
Our  passage  to  the  distant  land 
Shine  on  a  cold  and  silent  strand; 
With  sombre  clouds  the  night  is  blind. 
Yet  what  are  dark  and  cold  combined 
Those  flames  of  magic  to  withstand, 
The  harbor  lights'? 

Now  be  we  all  of  joyous  mind, 

Swift  to  obey  or  to  command  ! 

The  great  adventure  is  at  hand — 
Yonder  is  France  that  looms  behind 
The  harbor  lights ! 


10 


II. 

AJSTERE  and  gray  the  walls  without ; 
Within,  a  quietness  that  glows 
With  heavenly  colors  all  about, 

With  gorgeous  blue  and  gold  and  rose. 
The  ancient  columns  seem  to  doze 
That  guard  so  sure,  so  silently, 
This  dim  cathedral  sanctity. 

With  song,  with  clamor  and  with  shout 
Down  the  long  street  the  column  goes : 

Here  kneel  the  weary  and  devout. 
The  winter  sun  descending  throws 
Its  rays  through  wondrous  glass  that  shows 

Old  saints  who  still  benignant  see 

This  dim  cathedral  sanctity. 

This  is  no  time  for  sloth  or  doubt ; 

We  may  not  dally  with  repose. 
The  day  needs  zealous  men  and  stout, 

With  faces  set  against  our  foes. 

Yet,  when  the  work  is  done — who  knows? 
Eternity  itself  may  be 
This  dim  cathedral  sanctity. 


11 


III. 

THE  new  year  comes  with  wind  and  snow. 
As  up  the  silent  street  we  go 
The  day  has  dawned ;  the  weaned  men 
Against  the  gale  are  bending  low 

And  stumbling  blindly  now  and  then. 

What  lies  before  we  may  not  know 
But  we  must  forward  even  so, 
For  it  were  shame  to  falter  when 
The  new  year  comes. 

In  spite  of  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

In  spite  of  every  doubt  and  woe 
And  dangers  still  beyond  our  ken, 
We  lift  us  and  take  heart  again, 

For  with  the  eastern  hills  aglow, 
The  new  year  comes. 


12 


IV. 

WE  live  at  ease  behind  the  lines 
Where  death  and  battle  come  not  nigh, 
The  walls  are  hung  with  glossy  vines, 
The  branches  of  the  trees  on  high 
Make  tracery  against  the  sky, 
The  rue  is  green  in  every  crack, 
And  all  is  lovely  to  the  eye — 
But,  oh,  the  women  clad  in  black ! 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  pines 

A  single  golden  butterfly 
Makes  mock  of  winter,  and  the  signs 

Of  spring  abundant  we  descry. 

Violets  in  the  meadows  lie, 
Daisies  bedeck  the  shepherd's  track, 

And  all  things  war  and  cold  defy — 
But,  oh,  the  women  clad  in  black! 

Yet  idleness  the  soul  confines 

More  straitly  than  with  chains.  We  sigh 
To  quit  this  beauty  that  combines 

To  lull  our  hearts  to  sloth.  Ah,  why 

Are  we  not  to  the  north  to  try 
Our  mettle  *?  If  we  come  not  back — 

We  have  eternity  to  buy — 
But,  oh,  the  women  clad  in  black ! 

Courage  to  peril  makes  reply 
And,  God  be  thanked,  there  are  no  lack 

Of  men  who  do  not  fear  to  die ! 
But,  oh,  the  women  clad  in  black ! 


V. 

AIONG  the  solemn  cypress  trees 
The  redbreasts'  song  is  blithe  and  clear. 
Enough  of  bitter  threnodies 
Among  the  solemn  cypress  trees ! 
More  fit  that  on  white  days  like  these 

Above  the  dead  who  slumber  here 
Among  the  solemn  cypress  trees 

The  redbreasts'  song  is  blithe  and  clear. 


VI. 

You  who  have  held  your  head  so  proudly  high 
Nor  grudged  the  cost,  nor  dallied  with  desire, 

You  to  whose  gallantry  we  all  aspire, 
Who  laugh  and  suffer  with  undaunted  eye, 
We  should  be  shamed  to  temporize  or  sigh 

Seeing  you  strong  to  what  the  fates  require — 
You  who  have  held  your  head  so  proudly  high 

Nor  grudged  the  cost,  nor  dallied  with  desire. 
May  the  good  time  of  peace  be  very  nigh 

When  he  whose  love  and  life  are  yours  entire 

Shall  come  from  out  his  test  of  blood  and  fire 
And  find,  when  bitter  warfare  has  passed  by, 
You  who  have  held  your  head  so  proudly  high. 


VII. 

AHWART  the  ruddy  dawn 
The  singing  skylarks  soar. 
The  morning  mists  are  drawn 
Athwart  the  ruddy  dawn. 
The  peaceful  night  is  gone — 
And  man  goes  forth  to  war. 
Athwart  the  ruddy  dawn 
The  singing  skylarks  soar. 


16 


VIII. 

O  BEAUTIFUL  and  reckless  whom  I  loved, 
Dead  while  your  life  was  strong  with  youth  and  pride ! 

Were  it  not  better  had  a  thousand  died 
Than  you,  with  all  your  promises  unproved*? 
Full  debonair  and  modest  as  behoved 

A  gallant  gentleman,  as  yet  untried, 
O  beautiful  and  reckless  whom  I  loved, 

Dead  while  your  life  was  strong  with  youth  and  pride ! 
Through  perils,  eager,  unafraid  you  roved 

Seeking  your  star  and  turning  not  aside. 

Now  you  are  gone  but  still  there  shall  abide 
Sunshine  about  the  places  where  you  moved, 
O  beautiful  and  reckless  whom  I  loved. 


IX. 

THE  almond  tree  has  blossomed  out 
In  spite  of  winter  and  of  wind. 
Better  its  flowered  faith  and  blind 
Than  bare  discretion  born  of  doubt. 
Let  him  that  would  misfortune  flout 
Look  to  the  hills,  and  he  shall  find 
The  almond  tree. 

Who  would  suspect  a  heart  so  stout 

In  that  frail  stem  for  spring  designed — 
For  spring,  whose  coming  sure  and  kind 

Is  heralded  in  white  about 
The  almond  tree. 


18 


X. 

A  LONELY  wooden  cross 
Upon  a  foreign  soil 
Is  all  that  marks  my  loss. 
A  lonely  wooden  cross 
Among  the  pines  that  toss 

In  ceaseless,  fruitless  toil. 
A  lonely  wooden  cross 
Upon  a  foreign  soil. 


XL 

Now  God  be  thanked  the  spring  has  come  again, 
And  all  the  hope  and  happiness  of  spring 
After  these  weary  months  of  sullen  rain 
Have  leapt  to  life  at  the  year's  blossoming. 
Oh,  hark!  the  season's  tender  heralding 
Where,  half  uncertain,  from  the  hedge  hard  by 

The  reminiscent  birds  begin  to  sing ; 
For  song  is  holy  and  can  never  die. 

Our  hearts  that  through  these  winter  months  have  lain 

Passive  and  dumb  to  aught  that  life  could  bring 
Beat  nobly  in  their  old  accustomed  strain 

Before  the  magic  of  that  carolling. 

Winter  and  weariness  are  on  the  wing, 
The  winds  with  music  have  swept  clear  the  sky, 

The  very  trees  make  music  as  they  swing, 
For  song  is  holy  and  can  never  die. 

Yet  war  is  ever  present  and  its  pain, 

Sorrow  and  loss  have  still  their  ancient  sting, 

The  menace  and  the  tragedy  remain. 

The  foe  advancing,  commoner  and  king, 
Trample  our  fanes  and  grim  defiance  fling 

To  God  and  man.  Our  steadfast  hearts  and  high 
With  song  move  forward  to  his  chastening, 

For  song  is  holy  and  can  never  die. 

What  though  should  perish  every  lovely  thing 
That  man  hath  made  his  heart  to  gratify  ? 

They  still  should  live  for  man's  remembering 
For  song  is  holy  and  can  never  die. 


20 


XII. 

WE  laughed  and  parted,  nevermore  to  meet 
In  this  fair  world  of  April  green  and  blue. 

The  whimsical  companionship  was  through, 
The  gay,  light-hearted  interlude  complete. 
Rising  from  the  green  bank  that  was  our  seat, 

Jesting  at  life,  as  we  were  wont  to  do, 
We  laughed  and  parted,  nevermore  to  meet 

In  this  fair  world  of  April  green  and  blue. 
Why  did  I  never  say  how  passing  sweet 

Had  been  the  days  that  I  had  spent  with  you  *? 

I  almost  thought  you  felt  the  impulse  too — 
The  chance  was  gone,  and,  rising  to  our  feet, 
We  laughed  and  parted,  nevermore  to  meet. 


21 


XIII. 

THE  sun  in  heaven  is  bright 
On  fields  with  clover  gay. 
After  the  breathless  fight 
The  sun  in  heaven  is  bright, 
And  his  benignant  light 

Covers  the  dead  today. 
The  sun  in  heaven  is  bright 
On  fields  with  clover  gay. 


22 


XIV. 

THIS  palace  gods  might  make  their  throne 
And  in  these  gardens  take  their  ease. 
How  kingly  sumptuous  the  stone 
Among  the  ancient  guardian  trees ! 
But,  oh,  more  excellent  than  these 
The  sweet  contentment  of  the  sky, 
The  all  but  summer  of  Versailles ! 

We,  happily,  have  never  grown 

Too  worn  upon  by  life  to  seize 
Such  fleeting  moments  of  our  own 

To  live  eternal  harmonies. 

This  charm  all  apprehension  flees 
And  weariness  is  banished  by 
The  all  but  summer  of  Versailles. 

Tomorrow  each  must  go  alone 

To  what  the  fates  of  war  shall  please. 

The  shadow  of  the  vague  unknown 
Lies  yonder.  Though  our  victories 
Be  bought  with  many  tragedies 

We  shall  remember,  you  and  I, 

The  all  but  summer  of  Versailles. 


XV. 

BRIGHT  as  a  single  poppy  in  a  field 
This  perfect  afternoon  has  been  to  me, 

Breaking  the  long  days  of  monotony 
As  with  a  flash  of  scarlet.  It  shall  yield 
Full  many  a  song  whose  music  lay  concealed 

Until  this  magic  moment  set  it  free. 
Bright  as  a  single  poppy  in  a  field 

This  perfect  afternoon  has  been  to  me, 
For  where  the  summer  woodland  made  a  shield 

Against  the  jargon  of  humanity 

I  looked  beneath  the  veil  of  tragedy 
And  saw  immortal  gaiety  revealed 
Bright  as  a  single  poppy  in  a  field. 


XVI. 

THE  day  he  died,  that  last  triumphant  day, 
Found  him  untainted  with  the  thought  of  fear, 

Facing  the  sudden  death  that  crashed  so  near 
Supremely  lovable,  supremely  gay, 
How  buoyant  and  how  swift !  Who  would  not  pray 

So  to  burst  into  Heaven  with  a  cheer ! 
The  day  he  died,  that  last  triumphant  day, 

Found  him  untainted  with  the  thought  of  fear. 
How  can  we  pity  him  of  whom  men  say 

"Our  bravest  and  our  best  is  fallen  here"  ? 

Ah,  we  are  proud  of  him,  who  held  him  dear, 
And  we  remember  that  he  led  the  way 
The  day  he  died,  that  last  triumphant  day. 


XVII. 

IN  calm  and  ancient  dignity  the  Seine 
Sweeps  through  the  town  of  towns  beneath  the  bow 
Of  many  a  bridge,  and,  with  a  half  disdain, 
Ripples  about  their  massive  piers  below, 
Confined,  yet  patient  to  endure  it  so. 
On  either  border  of  its  mighty  swell 
The  art  of  ages  flourishes  I  know, 
But  I  love  best  the  gentle  voiced  Moselle. 

The  broad  Garonne  moves  silent  to  the  main 

And  lingers  all  along  its  course  as  though 
It  loved  the  vanished  highlands  and  were  fain 

To  shun  the  roar  and  hurry  of  Bordeaux. 

There  rise  the  poplar  trees  in  stately  row 
And  cast  upon  the  soul  a  subtle  spell 

With  weaving  of  their  branches  to  and  fro, 
But  I  love  best  the  gentle  voiced  Moselle. 

Unhurried  through  the  heart  of  the  Touraine 

The  lordly  Loire's  historic  waters  flow, 
And  sing  in  proud  and  reminiscent  strain 

The  deathless  glories  of  the  high  chateaux. 

With  old  romance  the  valley  is  aglow 
For  there  the  unforgotten  splendors  dwell 

And  great  traditions  of  the  long  ago — 
But  I  love  best  the  gentle  voiced  Moselle. 

Upon  the  fruitful  bosom  of  the  plain 

In  spring  beside  the  upper  Marne  they  sow. 
The  summer  makes  it  glorious  with  grain 

And  flowered  loveliness  the  meadows  show. 

Along  the  stream  the  scented  breezes  blow, 
The  blossoms  of  the  field  are  sweet  to  smell, 

And  sweet  the  fragrance  of  the  grass  they  mow. 
But  I  love  best  the  gentle  voiced  Moselle. 

With  mingled  memories  of  pride  and  pain 

The  Meuse  moves  seaward,  tortuous  and  slow, 

26 


Forever  dreaming  of  the  bitter  gain 

Of  those  bare  ruins,  purchased  with  our  woe, 
Silent  save  where  the  melancholy  crow 

Flaps  on  above  that  long  extinguished  hell, 

While  on  our  dead  the  trees  their  blossoms  strow. 

But  I  love  best  the  gentle  voiced  Moselle. 

Time  was  when  wild  and  bloody  ran  the  Aisne 

To  witness  the  confusion  of  the  foe, 
And  never  shall  the  stream  forget  that  stain 

Though  whitened  with  a  thousand  winters'  snow. 

Here  too  lie  our  heroic  dead,  and,  oh, 
We  love  the  spot.  Forever  where  they  fell 

Memorials  of  scarlet  poppies  grow. 
But  I  love  best  the  gentle  voiced  Moselle. 

Ah,  streams  of  France,  your  varied  beauties  throw 
Their  charm  about  my  heart :  I  love  you  well. 

On  each  his  excellence  the  gods  bestow 
But  I  love  best  the  gentle  voiced  Moselle. 


XVIII. 

HERE  once  a  village  stood 
That  was  the  home  of  men 
Who  lived  when  God  was  good. 
Here  once  a  village  stood, 
And  all  this  blasted  wood 

Was  green  with  summer  then. 
Here  once  a  village  stood 
That  was  the  home  of  men. 


28 


XIX. 

IN  honor  and  in  triumph,  O  my  friend, 
Your  soul  has  gone  beyond  my  mortal  view 

And  left  me  with  the  poignant  need  of  you 
Which  later  fellowships  can  never  mend. 
I  prayed,  with  you  beside  me  to  ascend 

The  heights  of  life.  We  should  have  won  thereto 
In  honor  and  in  triumph.  O  my  friend, 

Your  soul  has  gone  beyond  my  mortal  view. 
Yet,  to  my  spirit  still  your  soul  shall  lend 

Courage  and  strength.  Clear  eyed,  as  you  would  do, 

I  face  the  challenge  of  my  life  anew, 
And  know  that  you  will  meet  me  in  the  end 
In  honor  and  in  triumph,  O  my  friend. 


XX. 

THE  wood  of  Apremont  is  still  and  cold, 
Its  laughing  leaves  are  dust,  its  birds  are  fled, 
And  never  shall  it  echo  as  of  old 
To  rustle  and  to  piping  overhead. 

Autumn  has  come  with  russet  and  with  red ; 
Evening  has  come  with  glory  and  with  gold. 

They  cannot  exorcise  the  chill  and  dread. 
The  wood  of  Apremont  is  still  and  cold. 

Beneath  its  leaves  quaint  tales  and  gay  were  told, 
Within  its  shades  what  tender  words  were  said 

What  time  the  black  thrush  sang !  But  now,  behold, 
Its  laughing  leaves  are  dust,  its  birds  are  fled. 

Its  noons  were  noisy  with  the  children's  tread, 
Its  evenings  sang  of  lovers  as  they  strolled. 

But  now  is  only  silence  and  the  dead, 
And  never  shall  it  echo  as  of  old. 

The  spring  shall  find  it  blasted  trunks  and  mold 
And  weeds  on  ruin  and  corruption  fed. 

Anemones  shall  nevermore  unfold 
To  rustle  and  to  piping  overhead. 

But  God  who  counteth  blood  that  hath  been  shed, 
Whom  naught  escapeth,  sad  or  base  or  bold, 

Shall  give  to  it  eternity  instead, 
And  in  the  woods  of  heaven  shall  be  enrolled 
The  wood  of  Apremont. 


XXI. 

THOSE  ruined  walls  of  stone 
Had  been  the  house  of  prayer. 
The  weeds  had  overgrown 
Those  ruined  walls  of  stone, 
But  I  went  in  alone 

Awhile  to  worship  there. 
Those  ruined  walls  of  stone 
Had  been  the  house  of  prayer. 


XXII. 

AifEAR  ago  on  Hempstead  plain 
Across  the  snow  the  wind  was  keen, 
And  bitter  little  gusts  would  glean 
Dead  leaves  where,  in  the  quiet  lane, 
With  memories  of  summer  rain 

Under  the  hedge  the  grass  was  green 
A  year  ago. 

Oh,  would  that  I  might  once  again 

Breathe  in  that  wind  so  white  and  clean  I 
I  was  at  peace,  I  had  not  seen 

This  dreary  dwelling  place  of  pain 
A  year  ago. 


XXIII. 

I  LOVED  her  for  the  laughter  in  her  eyes 
Which  all  the  world  at  war  could  not  subdue. 
Life's  glory  and  life's  bitterness  she  knew, 
And  hopeless  dawns  and  vivid  noonday  skies 
Were  in  the  texture  of  her  spirit,  wise 

And  calm  and  gay  as  the  eternal  blue. 
I  loved  her  for  the  laughter  in  her  eyes 

Which  all  the  world  at  war  could  not  subdue. 

0  splendid  alchemy  that  could  surprise 

The  brightness  of  existence  shining  through 
Its  chaos  and  its  clouds,  and  so  make  true 
The  golden  hope  of  joy  that  in  us  lies. 

1  loved  her  for  the  laughter  in  her  eyes. 


33 


XXIV. 

THE  distant  cannons'  steady  roar 
Last  night  was  loud,  and  now  they  cease ! 
How  strange  that  we  shall  hear  no  more 
The  distant  cannons'  steady  roar ! 
For  we  have  grown  so  used  to  war; 

So  inconceivable  is  peace. 
The  distant  cannons'  steady  roar 

Last  night  was  loud,  and  now — they  cease. 


34 


XXV. 

SLEEP  in  this  sacred  earth,  the  strife  is  done. 
Failure  and  triumph  both  are  laid  to  rest 

Upon  the  all-forgiving  mother's  breast 
In  equal  peace  beneath  the  kindly  sun. 
Never  again  shall  trumpet  call  or  gun 

Arouse  you  to  take  up  the  bitter  quest. 
Sleep  in  this  sacred  earth,  the  strife  is  done. 

Failure  and  triumph  both  are  laid  to  rest. 
Save  God  himself  alone  there  now  is  none 

Who  can  divide  the  baser  from  the  best 

Or  weigh  the  worth  of  the  unworthiest. 
But  they  that  hopeless  fought  and  they  that  won 
Sleep  in  this  sacred  earth.  The  strife  is  done. 


35 


XXVI. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  by  this  shore 
We  two  should  walk  together  thus 
And  all  in  idleness  discuss 
The  pleasant  days  that  are  no  more, 
We  who,  a  little  time  before, 

Counted  these  lands  half  fabulous? 
Is  it  not  strange4? 

Dreadful  to  many  is  the  score 
Of  battle,  aye,  and  onerous, 
But  when  such  times  recall  to  us 

The  fruit  that  we  have  reaped  of  war — 
Is  it  not  strange*? 


XXVII. 

THIS  land  of  vivid  skies  and  sparkling  seas 
Blue  beyond  all  imagining  of  blue ! 
This  land  of  oranges  upon  the  trees 

More  golden  than  the  fabled  fruit  that  grew 
In  the  Hesperides  !  Can  it  be  true 
That  we  have  lived  to  see  the  struggle  cease, 
That  clouds  and  battle  are  transmuted  to 
The  gaiety  of  Christmas  and  of  Nice  ? 

How  wonderful  to  wander  at  our  ease 

With  none  to  watch  or  hinder  what  we  do ! 
Here  are  no  testy  godlings  to  appease, 

No  fruitless,  empty  labors  to  eschew; 

No  purpose  but  our  fancies  to  pursue, 
Our  duty  to  give  thanks  for  our  release 

And,  every  splendid  hour,  to  prove  anew 
The  gaiety  of  Christmas  and  of  Nice. 

Care  is  a  monster,  doubt  is  a  disease 

And  melancholy  but  a  witches'  brew. 
This  is  no  time  for  phantoms  such  as  these. 

Myrtle  and  roses  mingle  not  with  rue. 

Let  us  forget  awhile !  Our  hours  are  few. 
Let  song  arise  and  revelry  increase. 

'Twere  shame  to  own  that  retrospection  slew 
The  gaiety  of  Christmas  and  of  Nice ! 

Yet — friends  too  long  unseen,  the  sight  of  you 
Here  in  the  glory  of  the  reborn  peace 

Runs  like  a  theme  of  deep  thanksgiving  through 
The  gaiety  of  Christmas  and  of  Nice. 


37 


XXVIII. 

WE  three  before  an  open  fire 
Holding  the  sum  of  man's  desire 
Can  warm  our  hands  and  laugh  at  fate, 
For  this  serene  triumvirate 
Has  all  that  mortal  could  require. 

We  touch  the  long  forgotten  lyre 
And  day's  crude  clamorings  retire, 
While  happy  on  the  Muses  wait 
We  three. 

The  war's  last  flickerings  expire. 
With  its  monotony  and  mire 

Perish  its  tragedy  and  hate. 

And  now — old  thoughts  and  old  debate, 
And,  seeking  visions  new  and  higher, 
We  three. 


XXIX. 

MON  pere,  incomparable  host, 
Surely  it  comes  to  very  few 
So  broadly  and  so  deep  to  view 
Your  France.  I  with  your  eyes,  I  boast, 
A  little  saw,  rejoicing  most 

To  find  the  eyes  so  wise  and  true, 
Mon  pere. 

I  drink — my  heart  is  in  the  toast — 
To  youth  perpetual  for  you. 
Rich  be  your  joys  and  ever  new, 

Speedy  your  advent  to  our  coast, 
Mon  pere. 


39 


XXX. 

OLD  ivy  covered  walls  of  gray 
That  guard  this  dear  secluded  lane, 
Stand  ye  immutable  for  ay, 
Old  ivy  covered  walls  of  gray. 
I  take  my  leave  of  you  today, 

But  I  will  surely  come  again, 
Old  ivy  covered  walls  of  gray 

That  guard  this  dear  secluded  lane. 


40 


XXXI. 

SOUTHWARD  beside  the  Rhone  in  spring  we  sped, 
The  river,  turbulent  and  swollen,  fed 
By  melting  snows  from  hills  to  left  and  right. 
Far  off  rose  one  indomitable  height 
Ice  crowned,  but  winter's  mastery  was  dead, 
And  lusty  breezes  from  the  sea  had  bred 
New  leaves  and  blossoms  by  the  river  bed. 

And  gay  we  journeyed,  gladdened  by  the  sight, 
Southward  beside  the  Rhone. 

Behind,  the  river  dwindled  to  a  thread. 
The  sunset  stained  its  yellow  waters  red ; 

The  hills  were  touched  with  an  unearthly  light ; 

And  still  we  sped  beneath  the  coming  night, 
With  hearts  and  faces  toward  the  sea  ahead, 
Southward  beside  the  Rhone. 


XXXII. 

BEHIND  us  faint  and  fainter  grows  the  shore 
That  was  the  whole  of  life  to  us  of  late. 
The  sky  is  blue,  and  blue  the  waves  that  roar 

And  beckon  us  with  laughter  where  they  wait. 

The  breezes  freshen  to  felicitate 
Our  outward  passage  to  the  sunlit  sea, 
For  we  are  going  home  triumphantly ! 

Yet,  as  the  prow  slips  sweetly  through  the  tide, 

We  check  our  eagerness  to  turn  aside 
A  moment  for  one  half  regretful  glance — 

One  moment  of  affection  and  of  pride : 
The  time  has  come  to  bid  farewell  to  France. 

A  little  while  and  all  that  went  before 
Of  pain  and  passion,  weariness  and  hate 

Shall  be  forgotten ;  we  shall  feel  once  more 
Old  hopes  revive,  old  labors  fascinate. 
But  this  our  parting  we  would  dedicate 

Unto  a  life  that  now  has  ceased  to  be, 

And  live  again  in  this  brief  memory 

Our  perils  passed,  our  handicaps  defied, 
The  bitterness  wherewith  our  souls  were  tried, 

And,  over  all,  the  bloom  and  the  romance, 
The  splendid  vision  that  shall  still  abide 

Beyond  the  time  to  bid  farewell  to  France. 

Not  all  return,  for  some  there  be  who  bore 

The  burden  well,  whose  staunchness  made  us  great, 

Who  fainted  not  in  the  long  strain  of  war 
Nor  flinched  in  battle,  loud,  precipitate, 
Hot,  overwhelming  as  the  face  of  Fate ; 

And  from  its  midst  were  suddenly  set  free 

Into  the  quiet  of  eternity. 

Theirs  is  the  light,  which  died  not  when  they  died, 
Which  serves  our  generation  as  its  guide ; 

Theirs  is  the  glorious  inheritance 

To  sleep,  eternal  comrades,  side  by  side, 

And  nevermore  to  bid  farewell  to  France. 

42 


O  sister  land !  Whate'er  the  years  may  hide 
Our  common  blood  shall  never  be  denied. 

Eager  we  came  to  thy  deliverance, 

And,  as  we  leave  thee,  wiser,  clearer  eyed 

We  bid  thee  hail  and  then  farewell,  O  France . 


43 


POEMS  TO  SEVERAL  PEOPLE. 


F.  P.  M. 

O  ICARUS,  incarnate  soul  of  flight, 
Insatiate  of  swiftness  and  of  height, 
Fit  comrade  of  the  lark  whose  heart  of  fire 
Springs  up  ecstatic  in  a  wild  desire 
To  quench  the  sun  with  song !  To  thee  the  sky 
Was  home,  the  winds  that  laugh  so  sweet  on  high 
Gave  eager  welcome  to  thy  kindred  soul 
And  thou,  as  Heaven  itself  had  been  thy  goal, 
Up,  up,  and  up  in  joyous  fearlessness 
Wast  wont  to  circle.  Who  can  ever  guess 
What  blithe  companionship  with  voiceless  space 
Was  thine  in  that  free  solitary  race — 
What  jocund  converse  with  the  sun  by  day 
And  with  the  stars  upon  the  milky  way 
When  thou  wouldst  seek  for  Stardust  at  its  source 
And  fragrant  night  was  cold  about  thy  course *? 
Flying  itself  was  very  life  to  thee, 
So  dear  that  nothing  but  eternity 
Could  tempt  thee  from  it.  Now  thy  flight  is  o'er. 
The  summer  sky  shall  never  see  thee  more 
After  that  day  when  from  a  cloudy  rift 
Thou  divedst  down  to  soar  again  more  swift 
Than  ever  man  has  flown,  in  Heaven's  light 
To  satiate  thy  soul  with  perfect  height 
O  Icarus — thou  disembodied  flight ! 


47 


M.  M.  H. 

Do  you  remember  when  the  spring  was  young 
The  mornings  when  we  walked  abroad  to  see 
The  little  tender  leaves  upon  the  tree 
New  green  and  all  with  tiny  dewdrops  hung  *? 

Do  you  remember  how  the  birds  would  sing 

And  how  the  river  in  an  undertone 

Laughed  to  itself,  how  bright  the  morning  shone 
And  every  cloudlet  seemed  a  living  thing? 

Those  days  are  gone  and  cannot  come  again — 
Those  light  and  pleasant  days.  From  such  as  they, 
The  essence  of  an  evanescent  May 

Departed  utterly,  what  can  remain  7 

Only  the  songs  that  never  can  be  sung, 
The  fragrance  of  imperishable  flowers, 
Only  the  memory  of  golden  hours 

And  spotless  mornings  when  the  spring  was  young. 


H.  P.  P. 

OUR  time  was  almost  ended 
And  we  were  left  alone. 
O,  half  uncomprehended 
And  yet  most  truly  known, 

I  who  am  still  your  debtor 
In  silence  took  your  hand. 

How  could  I  thank  you  better, 
Knowing  you  understand  *? 

You  burst  my  life  asunder 
With  your  fantastic  soul, 

Your  weariness  and  wonder, 
Your  bitter  wit  and  droll ; 

Insulting  dawn  with  sadness, 
Shocking  the  night  with  cheers 

And  with  a  jocund  madness 
Breathlessly  close  to  tears. 

Pain  have  I  known  and  pleasure, 
Laughter  and  war  and  woe, 

And  yet  your  spirit's  treasure 
I  can  but  dimly  know. 

Your  spirit  is  a  jewel 

Of  fierce  and  lovely  lights, 

Of  tender  flames  and  cruel, 
Of  awful  depths  and  heights. 

You  scorn  and  fear  tomorrow, 
You  mock  and  long  for  rest. 

All  life  is  in  your  sorrow, 
All  death  is  in  your  jest. 

But,  heart  beyond  my  knowing, 

Yet  closer  to  my  heart 
Than  all  your  overflowing 

Of  fantasy  and  art, 

49 


Though  all  our  laughter  perish 
When  all  our  tears  are  dead, 

We  still  shall  have  to  cherish 
The  words  we  left  unsaid. 

To  speak  would  be  to  cheapen 
The  things  we  cannot  tell 

Which  silence  would  but  deepen- 
Hail,  brother,  and  farewell ! 


H.  P. 

THEY  were  new  buds,  the  leaves  that  now  are  falling, 
When  last  we  met ;  they  find  us,  I  am  sure, 
Unchanged  at  heart  as  now  we  sit  recalling 
That  distant  other  world  of  ours  at  Tours. 

What  motley  whims  and  fancies  to  remember ! 

The  antic  revels  that  were  our  delight, 
The  fascination  of  the  dying  ember 

And  golden  laughter  in  the  winter  night. 

In  future  years  of  too  infrequent  meeting 

Can  any  of  that  recollection  last  *? 
Surely  the  sight  of  you,  however  fleeting, 

Will  always  call  to  mind  that  vivid  past. 

I  still  must  pay,  whatever  comes  hereafter, 
My  homage  to  a  faith  that  will  not  tire — 

A  heart  to  turn  the  winter  night  to  laughter 
And  glorify  the  glow  of  dying  fire. 


C.  L.  W.,  WITH  A  MIRROR. 

EST  year,  as  tribute  to  your  gallant  heart, 
Our  scanty  best  of  offerings  we  brought 
To  you,  and  you  with  a  surpassing  art 

Made  rich  by  your  acceptance  things  of  naught. 

And  I  had  nothing  but  my  idle  days — 
My  gray  and  idle  days  to  bring  you  there. 

Yet  you  transformed  the  empty  gifts  in  ways 
Most  wonderful,  to  make  them  passing  fair. 

Yours  was  a  magic  to  outlast  the  war, 

A  power  to  be  perpetually  true. 
And  so,  behold,  I  bring  to  you  once  more 

A  gift  to  be  made  beautiful  by  you. 


Z.  S.,  JULY,  1917. 

THE  single  lamp  that  lights  the  quiet  room 
Sends  ruddy  rays  athwart  the  outer  gloom 
Where  trees  are  motionless  against  the  sky 
And,  underneath,  the  roses  are  in  bloom. 

Thus  sitting  we  can  almost  catch  once  more 
The  old  content  we  knew  so  well  before 
Our  academic  peace  was  split  in  twain 
And  we  were  burst  upon  by  sudden  war. 

The  old  content !  Withdrawing  for  a  space 
From  every  contact  with  our  time  and  place 

To  be  familiars  of  the  kings  of  men 
And  meet  the  godlike  heroes  face  to  face. 

Thoughts  of  tomorrow's  cares  and  tasks  to  drown 
How  often  have  we  talked  the  planets  down 
While  lights  upon  the  campus  one  by  one 
Went  out,  and  all  was  silent  in  the  town. 

The  nights  when  our  philosophy  was  wrought 
By  subtle  skill  of  language  and  of  thought 

Into  vague  likeness  of  eternal  truth — 
What  fool  shall  say  that  they  were  spent  for  naught? 

What  shall  our  later  lives'  fruition  show 
That  was  not  there  innate,  for  even  so 

The  seed  contains  the  rose  that  is  to  be — 
Who  knows  in  what  strange  fields  the  rose  will  blow*? 

What  sorcery  is  here  that  makes  this  night 
Unlike  the  bygone  times  of  our  delight 

When  poetry  made  rich  the  printed  page 
And  stately  visions  rose  upon  our  sight? 

The  hours  with  Homer  and  with  Sophocles 
Were  peaceful  hours  and  sweet.  Yet  are  not  these 

As  peaceful  ?  Lo,  the  stars  are  in  the  sky 
And  roses  blooming  underneath  the  trees. 

53 


The  change  is  not  about  us  but  within, 
For  we  have  felt  the  will  to  war  begin 

And,  in  this  matching  of  titanic  powers, 
We  know  that  to  be  idle  were  to  sin. 

And  we  are  full  of  newborn  restlessness, 
Unsatisfied  to  praise  and  to  profess, 

Eager  to  prove  us  strong  to  give  our  all 
Or  know  ourselves  for  nothing,  being  less. 

It  matters  not  what  foe  or  folly  saith. 

That  lives  today  which  late  was  but  a  wraith : 

The  transubstantiation  hath  been  wrought — 
The  wine  of  creed  is  made  the  blood  of  faith. 

Friend  of  the  best  of  these  my  younger  days, 
Sharer  alike  of  labors  and  of  praise, 

The  dayspring  of  our  comradeship  is  past 
And  we  are  at  the  parting  of  the  ways. 

War  is  a  fickle  master  at  the  best 

And  may  divide  us  far  as  east  from  west. 

Who  knows  what  nights  like  this  may  bring  us  soon, 
What  weariness  and  bitter  need  of  rest1? 

Lo,  we  are  caught  in  world-compelling  powers. 
Yet  still  the  memory  of  other  hours 

Shall  fall  upon  my  soul  in  nights  to  come 
Refreshing  as  the  starlight  on  the  flowers. 

And  you,  although  perchance  your  task  be  set 
In  some  far  place  beyond  my  vision,  yet — 

We  two  together  saw  the  bloom  of  life 
And  well  I  know  that  you  will  not  forget. 

For  this  is  not  forever.  Though  it  be 

The  greatest  thing  our  lives  should  ever  see, 

War  is  ephemeral.  But  still  abide 
The  things  we  loved  unto  eternity. 

54 


In  spite  of  all  the  agony  and  scars 

That  are  the  substance  and  the  fruit  of  wars 

The  roses  in  the  night  are  not  less  sweet 
Nor  skies  less  spacious  nor  less  white  the  stars. 

So  joy  remembered  is  forever  new. 
Wherefore,  in  spite  of  all  that  time  can  do, 

What  we  have  lived  time  cannot  take  away, 
And  life  will  still  be  rich  because  of  you. 


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